


An Apple A Day...

by silentdescant



Series: Snapshots [18]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Humiliation, M/M, Medical Kink, Orgasm Control, Prostate Milking, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: Mitch swings his feet, booted heels tapping against drawer handles with a sharp, metallic click. He shoves his hands under his thighs. It’s always cold in their house but it feels particularly chilly today, with the marble countertop under him.This is part of the game, the waiting, but Mitch isn’t sure he likes it. His stomach is fluttering with nerves. He glances at the readout on the microwave. It’s been more than five minutes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> KINKtober Day 14: Medical Play

Mitch swings his feet, booted heels tapping against drawer handles with a sharp, metallic click. He shoves his hands under his thighs. It’s always cold in their house but it feels particularly chilly today, with the marble countertop under him.

This is part of the game, the waiting, but Mitch isn’t sure he likes it. His stomach is fluttering with nerves. He glances at the readout on the microwave. It’s been more than five minutes.

Finally, Scott sweeps into the room. He’s fully dressed the part, with slacks and a button-down, and a white lab coat thrown over it. He’s even carrying a clipboard. He doesn’t look at Mitch as he finds a stool and drags it over; he sits and flips through the pages of what looks like an actual medical chart. Mitch licks his lips and folds his hands together in his lap, trying to appear patient while his body vibrates with tension.

“Just a basic exam today, huh?” Scott asks. “It’s been a while since your last visit. Did anything in particular bring you in today?”

Mitch nods quickly. “I’m getting ready for tour. Just wanted to get checked out. You know, with all the traveling and—”

“Of course,” Scott interrupts brusquely. He puts the clipboard down on the counter behind him and opens one of the drawers.

Usually it holds measuring cups and spatulas, but not today. Mitch’s breath catches when he sees the stethoscope Scott pulls out. There are other things in there, too, but Scott shuts the drawer before he can get more than a glance.

“Take off your clothes,” Scott says. “Let’s get a look at you.”

He loops the stethoscope around his neck and perches on his stool, crosses his arms in front of his chest. He stares at Mitch. Waiting. His gaze feels strangely predatory, and Mitch’s stomach churns as he hops off the counter.

Mitch crouches down to untie the laces of his boots and above him, Scott makes an almost inaudible noise. A groan, maybe. He looks up and sees Scott staring back at him, his eyes half-lidded. Mitch makes quick work of the rest of his clothes, stripping off everything but his underwear and tossing it all in a pile on the floor.

Scott’s eyes rake over his body, never lingering in one place for more than a second. Mitch isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He clasps them in front, then crosses his arms over his chest, then drops them down to his sides.

“You didn’t finish,” Scott says. His terse tone is back and it makes Mitch’s gut twist with embarrassment that doesn’t really make sense, but he embraces it. The low-grade humiliation is familiar, and more importantly, it’s authentic.

He pushes his briefs slowly down his thighs and lets them fall and puddle around his ankles. He turns to give Scott a show as he bends to pick them up and toss them away. There’s no reason this can’t be fun for both of them.

“Up on the table,” Scott says. It’s slightly too tall for Mitch to hop up without making a fool of himself. Scott watches him struggle for a moment, smirking as Mitch digs his heels into the smooth cabinet doors, before raising an eyebrow and asking, “Need some help?”

“I got it,” Mitch replies, his cheeks burning. He finds purchase on one of the drawer handles and settles back into position with his legs pressed tightly together and his hands clenched in his lap.

“Relax,” Scott murmurs. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

The marble countertop is absolutely freezing under his ass and thighs, and Mitch isn’t sure if it’s the cold or the smug sleaziness of Scott’s voice that makes him shiver.

Scott pushes his hand between Mitch’s knees and forces them apart, spreads his legs until there’s enough space for him to step between them. He lays his hand against Mitch’s throat, tilting his head back, fingertips pressing hard against Mitch’s pulse point.

He meets Mitch’s gaze and holds it. His eyes are like ice. He says, “Your heart’s racing,” like he doesn’t know _why_ , and as his hand slips down to Mitch’s chest, he adds, “Are you nervous, Mitch?”

“No,” Mitch whispers, but his voice is high and tight, betraying the lie.

Scott puts the stethoscope in his ears and presses the end to Mitch’s sternum. It’s shockingly cold, and Mitch flinches.

“Deep breaths,” Scott says. It’s only then that Mitch realizes he’s taking shallow, rapid breaths. His mind isn’t panicky, but Scott’s demeanor is putting him on edge, and his body’s not handling it well. Scott lays his hand over Mitch’s throat again, gently this time. “Deep breaths,” he says again, his voice softer. He inhales, holds, waits for Mitch to copy him, and they exhale together. Mitch is quivering, and his breath shakes.

Scott finishes with the stethoscope and loops it back around his neck, out of the way while he palpates Mitch’s throat and sinuses. They’ve been to enough doctors that Scott knows what he’s doing, and it feels very routine. Mitch forgets for a moment that this is a scene as he follows Scott’s firm prodding and murmured instructions to move, breathe, swallow.

Eventually Scott steps back, and without the closeness of his body to keep Mitch warm, Mitch shivers and hunches in on himself. He lowers his face and listens to Scott opening the drawer, sifting around, shutting it again. He only looks up at the sound of latex snapping.

Scott is stretching a pair of blue gloves over his hands, pulled so tight across his knuckles Mitch thinks the plastic might split. He can see every outline, every ridge through the pale blue material. Scott produces a tongue depressor from somewhere and grins. His smile somehow looks menacing.

“Open for me, Mitch,” he says, and Mitch’s mouth drops open automatically.

Scott uses the tongue depressor first, and he doesn’t stick it very deep. He peers inside Mitch’s mouth, directs Mitch through a couple vocalizations, and hums with satisfaction at whatever he sees. Then, once he’s tossed the little wooden stick away, he pushes two fingers deep into Mitch’s mouth and presses down hard on his tongue. Mitch gags, coughs, but Scott doesn’t let up. His left hand comes around to cup the back of Mitch’s head, keeping him firmly in place.

Scott explores Mitch’s mouth with his fingers, and they taste sharply of plastic, but they slide around easily in the mess of saliva that drips from Mitch’s lips. Scott hooks his fingers behind Mitch’s teeth and stretches his lips wide, ignoring Mitch’s gasp of discomfort, and holds him there for a moment. Mitch’s jaw aches and Scott’s stare feels like a cold spotlight, exposing everything vulnerable to this clinical examination.

Finally, Scott’s fingers slip free and he backs out of Mitch’s space with a sharp, “Lie back.” No praise, no words of comfort.

Mitch can’t bring himself to wipe the drool from his chin, not while Scott’s looking at him. He leans back until his shoulder blades touch the cold counter, then immediately tries to sit up again. Scott’s hand appears out of nowhere and pushes him down until he’s lying flat. Mitch squirms under him, wincing.

“Cold,” he says through clenched teeth.

Scott chuckles. “Yeah, we keep this place pretty chilly.” It’s clear Mitch will have to suck it up and deal with it; Scott won’t offer any comfort today.

Mitch manages to keep still while Scott massages his stomach, presses his fingers in just beneath Mitch’s ribcage. He only flinches a little bit when Scott teases his nipples, rubbing them with his gloved palm and then pinching them between his fingers and thumb.

Then Scott starts asking him questions. They’re simple enough, things that doctors usually ask. Does Mitch have any injuries, any pain? Has he been sick recently? Any digestive problems? What is his diet like? Then Scott asks, “Are you sexually active, Mitch?” Like he doesn’t know. Like it’s a routine question.

His hands drift down to Mitch’s groin. He lays his palm against Mitch’s inner thigh, holding his legs apart. Mitch can feel a hot flush spreading down from his cheeks, all the way to his chest. His arms break out into goosebumps, but he doesn’t feel cold anymore. Quite the opposite; he feels like he’s burning up.

“Yes,” he answers in a tight, clipped voice.

“You let men fuck you?” Scott asks. “You let them fuck your ass?” Something about Scott’s tone makes Mitch cringe, but his cock is responding differently; he’s hard against his thigh, so close to Scott’s fingers. He wonders if Scott will touch him.

“Yes.”

“Does talking about sex make you excited, Mitch? Does that turn you on? Are you thinking about men using you, fucking your hole?”

Mitch swallows and closes his eyes. He nods.

“Unfortunately that means I have to run some tests.”

“What? What tests?”

Scott doesn’t reply. He hooks his arm under Mitch’s legs and hoists them up, then says, “On your knees. I have to examine you.”

Mitch rearranges his body so he’s on all fours on the counter. He hears Scott digging through the drawer, recognizes the sound of clinking metal, and then the drawer closes again and Scott’s back, pressing one slick, gloved finger into Mitch’s ass. He doesn’t go very deep; it feels like he’s just smearing the lube around, right now. Preparing Mitch for something bigger.

Mitch realizes he’s panting and lowers himself to his elbows so he can bury his face in his hands. His back arches automatically as Scott thrusts the tip of his finger in and out, chasing the sensation. Scott doesn’t let him have it, though, and all too soon, the slick finger disappears, leaving Mitch groaning with frustration.

The next thing he feels against his ass is cold and slick, metal. Something Scott pulled from the drawer. It slips inside him easily—it’s not very thick—and rests there, the base curving against his ass. Scott puts one hand on Mitch’s back, pushing him into a deeper bow so his chest is flat on the counter, and then the toy—instrument, _tool_ —clicks. Clicks. Clicks.

Mitch’s breath catches in his throat. The device isn’t painful, not in the slightest, but Mitch’s entire body tenses because he can feel it growing inside him. Stretching him open. Open. _Open_. It’s cold and strange and suddenly feels huge, and Mitch’s hole is so exposed, on display for Scott with his ass in the air and his legs spread wide.

His cock is throbbing with need, and Scott actually reaches between Mitch’s legs to tap it, nudge it until it’s pointing straight. He’s leaking precome, slicking the countertop where the head of his cock touches. Mitch has to fight with his body to resist rolling his hips and rubbing his dick against the counter.

Scott isn’t finished yet. “Any pain?” he asks, resting his palm flat on Mitch’s back again.

“No, Doctor,” Mitch pants. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. You’re used to having your hole stretched open, aren’t you?”

Mitch groans again, shuddering at Scott’s words. He closes his eyes.

Scott slides something underneath Mitch’s dick. Mitch doesn’t care to open his eyes and see. He just wants Scott to touch him.

Scott doesn’t, of course. Instead, he inserts something in Mitch’s ass, some new toy. He’s so stretched, he can’t really feel it at first, but then Scott tilts it forward, and the blunt tip rubs against his prostate, and Mitch can’t hold back a loud moan.

“Am I going to have to strap you down while I do this?” Scott asks in a low voice.

“No, Sir—Doctor. No. I’m good. I’ll be still.”

“This is a delicate test,” Scott says. He moves the toy, pushes it deeper, massages Mitch’s prostate for a moment before adding, sharply, “It’s crucial you don’t ruin it.”

The hot flush of humiliation rises up on Mitch’s cheeks again. He hides his face in the crook of his elbow and whines desperately. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ll be good.”

“That might be hard for you,” Scott mutters. Then he clicks a button and the toy in Mitch’s ass starts vibrating. It’s only a buzz, but shoved right up against his prostate, it feels like his entire lower half is shaking. His thighs are quivering, and he can even feel the sensations in his dick. He wants to move, wants to touch himself now more than ever.

Heat spreads through his whole body, making him tingle from his fingertips to deep in his gut. His stomach is full of butterflies, frantically fluttering and trying to escape. His heart pounds in his chest, rabbit-fast, sent into overdrive.

“Oh, god,” he gasps, “D—Doctor, please—”

“Is something wrong, Mitch?”

“I’m gonna—I can’t…” Mitch can’t describe what he’s feeling; his brain is offline, buzzing like the white noise of the vibrator inside him. He feels like he’s going to piss himself, but his cock is aching, leaking precome profusely.

“It’s perfectly normal,” Scott tells him. He tilts the vibrator again, bringing it back to the perfect angle against Mitch’s prostate.

“Oh god, oh my god, _ohgod, oh, oh_ ,” Mitch cries.

He’s dripping, not just precome anymore but actual come, and it’s like nothing Mitch has experienced before. It doesn’t feel like an orgasm; his cock is still desperate for friction, for Scott’s touch. He’s slick all over, coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and his arms slip against the counter. He wants to cry. He can sense the sobs building up in his throat. Every time he blinks, his vision goes hazy and bright, and he can’t hold onto a coherent thought for more than a second before it skitters away, lost to the buzzing in his brain.

Scott eventually removes the toy and the device holding Mitch’s ass open wide. He strokes his hand up and down Mitch’s spine, soothing him. The glove slides easily over sweat-slick skin.

He helps Mitch turn over onto his back and shows him a shallow dish filled and splattered with his come. “This is a decent sample,” he says. “I’ll run my tests and you’ll have to make another appointment to hear the results.”

“Yessir,” Mitch slurs. His body is tense, like he’s still waiting for an orgasm, but his brain is decidedly offline.

Scott stares down at him. “You may touch yourself. Here, under my supervision. If you wish.”

Scott won’t touch him; he’s made that clear. Mitch reaches for his cock, wastes no time in stroking vigorously. Scott’s gaze is heavy and cold—or maybe that’s the air conditioner, kicking on again—and Mitch shivers, goosebumps breaking out all over his arms and legs. He wants to come, needs to come, and he’s so close. But he’s already come—kind of. His body is too confused and his mind isn’t helping.

When he reaches orgasm, it doesn’t feel right. It’s intense, sure, and leaves him shaking and breathless, but he doesn’t really _come_. It’s not what Mitch is used to, and it’s a strange feeling to not know his own body.

He sits up, leaning heavily on Scott, and slides off the counter. As soon as Scott lets go of him, Mitch drifts to the floor, collapsing into a puddle on his knees. He slumps against the cabinets—the handles are digging painfully into his shoulder—and tilts his head up to look at Scott.

“I’ll call you to schedule another appointment when I have your test results,” Scott tells him curtly. “Pull yourself together and get dressed before you leave this office.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mitch sighs. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Scott leaves without another word, turning on his heel so his white lab coat swings dramatically around him. Once he’s gone, the room feels colder. Mitch shivers. His gaze drops to the haphazard pile of clothes a few feet away.

The ache and the pain of being used and cast aside settles in Mitch’s chest and he lets himself wallow in it for a moment. It’s a strangely good hurt, a darkness that he savors before returning to the happier glow of the real world.

His limbs feel like pudding, but if he can make himself move, force himself to at least throw on the sweatshirt, he can join Scott upstairs. Scott’s waiting for him, he knows. Scott will hold him and let him decompress, and he’ll want to hear all about Mitch’s doctor’s appointment.

The office is feeling more and more like a kitchen, now. Mitch reaches up to the countertop and drags himself upright. It’s only two steps to his sweatshirt, and he pulls it easily over his head. The hem hangs down the top of his thighs, and it’s soft, warm enough to comfort him in the cold, clinically clean kitchen.

Scott is waiting for him.

 

_fin _.__


End file.
